


Flufftober Fics

by chamaenerion



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Brother Francis (Good Omens) - Freeform, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Drabble Collection, Ducks, F/F, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Flufftober, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Meet-Cute, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Almostageddon, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-11-27 19:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20953682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamaenerion/pseuds/chamaenerion
Summary: A collection of fluffy drabble fills forFlufftober 2019.Chapter 10: It's about thehands.





	1. Dancing (f/f, flirting, dancing)

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles include a few brief descriptors of each drabble :)
> 
> [[tumblr]](http://pluckydean.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I'll be continuing these into November because I am _determined_ to finish all 31.

Crowley takes a single sip of cheap champagne before, with a snap of her fingers, she miracles all of the alcohol at the reception to top shelf status.

“Oh!” Aziraphale wiggles happily beside her, pleased to find her own glass of wine had aged a few significant years. “Thank you, dear.”

Crowley shrugs it off, focused as she is on the small dance floor where Newt is inexpertly twirling Anathema through their first dance. Her fingers twitch nervously against the champagne flute. She steals a glance at Aziraphale who has started in on Crowley’s untouched slice of devil’s food cake.

She opens her mouth, shuts it again, and watches a dozen couples join the newlyweds on the dance floor. It’s a fast song, so she bides her time and tries not to lose her nerve entirely.

“Mm,” Aziraphale hums a few minutes later. She licks a stray smudge of frosting from her thumb.

“Do you want to dance?” Crowley blurts suddenly. Smooth as all hell. She wants to sink into the ground.

Aziraphale blinks at her, hand still raised to her mouth.

“I mean, I don’t… I’ve never been any good at it, but I thought, maybe.” Crowley panics. “Never mind, forget I said anything it was a stupid-”

Aziraphale stands and Crowley thinks, oh well done, you’ve really mucked it up now, she’s leaving. But Aziraphale holds out a soft, perfectly manicured hand, says, “Dance with me.”

Crowley lays her hand gently on Aziraphale’s upturned palm. Warmth from her hand spreads across Crowley’s perpetually cold fingers and she’s so distracted by the sensation she completely misses the short walk from their table to the dance floor.

She’s distantly aware of the slow, almost melancholy music wafting across the garden.

“I’m not very skilled at dancing,” Aziraphale is saying, “so I feel I should apologize in advance for stepping on your feet.” She smiles.

Dazed and not listening, Crowley smiles back.

Aziraphale looks around at the other couples dancing near them and seems to come to a decision because her hands land rather suddenly on Crowley’s waist.

Crowley just barely refrains from jumping out of her skin, masks her shock by reaching for Aziraphale’s shoulders. It feels incredible, even through the thick fabric of Aziraphale’s suit jacket. Aziraphale radiates warmth; Crowley feels it keenly in the palms of her hands, at those two intoxicating points of contact at her waist.

They dance together slowly, barely moving their feet at all.

Aziraphale’s thumbs rub against the silky fabric of Crowley’s dress, gently and out of rhythm with each other as if she’s unaware of what she’s doing.

Crowley sways a little closer, brings her hands together behind Aziraphale’s collar. She looks down into Aziraphale’s sky blue eyes and feels bold. Her fingers lift to brush against the soft hair at the nape of her neck. To her amazement, Aziraphale blushes.

“This is nice,” Aziraphale says as the song comes to an end.

A new, faster beat starts.

Crowley snaps her fingers behind Aziraphale’s head. There’s a sound like a record scratching and then a much more gentle tempo fills the garden.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes, but she smiles.

“Just one more,” Crowley says.

“Perhaps…” Aziraphale says, “perhaps two more?” Her lips dip into a pout.

Crowley laughs. “As many as you like, angel.” (1)

-

(1) They continue to revolve in slow circles at the edge of the dance floor until Anathema makes a very pointed request for something more upbeat.


	2. Snow (m/m, hugging, a smooch)

Against all reason, Crowley likes the snow. It’s cold and wet and it makes him shiver when he so much as passes by a window- but he likes the way the sky goes grey and the flakes land so gently on the ground, the hood of the Bentley, sometimes his outstretched hand when he dares to venture outside to enjoy the sight. His cold blooded nature rebels against it, demands that he return inside and seek out a warm place to curl into and nap.

“Crowley, my dear.” Aziraphale opens the shop’s door behind him. “Do come in, you must be cold.”

He is completely chilled the bone but he denies it. “Just a minute longer,” he says. His breath swirls out like smoke among the snowflakes.

They don’t get snow in London like they used to. He toys with the idea of a holiday, somewhere north, where the snow thoroughly blankets the landscape. He could watch it through a window from the warmth of Aziraphale’s arms. He imagines them soaking up the heat from a fireplace, thinks of Aziraphale’s lips sticky sweet from hot cocoa.

Aziraphale wraps his arm around Crowley’s waist, pulls him close and back into the present.

Snowflakes fall almost invisibly onto his pale curls. One lands on his nose and Crowley leans in to kiss it away.

Aziraphale smiles. “Pretty, isn’t it?” His eyes track the snow falling to the ground, lighter now than it had been a few minutes ago.

“Beautiful,” Crowley mumbles, face buried in Aziraphale’s soft hair. “Let’s go inside, angel.”


	3. Blanket (Snow, pt.2)

Crowley shakes the snow off his shoulders as he follows Aziraphale into the bookshop. The warmth that greets him makes him realize just how cold he’s become. He shivers, just a little, just enough that Aziraphale notices and begins to fuss.

“Come here,” Aziraphale says. He guides Crowley to the couch and they settle in side by side, Aziraphale’s arm tight around his shoulders.

He miracles a weighted blanket in his signature tartan pattern, spreads it over the both of them, and Crowley soaks up the warmth that slowly builds between them under the blanket.

Aziraphale opens a book with one hand, the other occupied with rubbing a trail of heat up and down Crowley’s arm.

Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, breathes in the familiar vanilla scent. “Read to me?” he asks, words heavy with the promise of sleep.

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale presses a gentle kiss to his forehead and Crowley’s eyes slip closed as his words settle over him.


	4. Candles (m/m, snake!Crowley, flangst)

Aziraphale putters around the shop, muttering to himself and clearly looking for something. Crowley, coiled up in a sunny patch by the front window, lets him carry on for the better part of an hour before he asks.

“My candles,” Aziraphale says. “I can’t find a single one! They’ve all disappeared.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, “a ssshame, that.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes at him. “What did you do?”

It’s much harder to pretend you’ve gone to sleep when you’re a eyelid-less snake. Oh well, might as well get this over with. He unfurls until he’s standing on two feet.

“Lisssten, angel,” he clears his throat, “clearly candles aren’t worth the trouble.” He snaps his fingers, holds out a battery operated candle (1). “If you like, I can replace them with these.” The fake flame wobbles hopefully.

“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale snaps away the offending candle. “You know full well that fire was not my fault.”

Crowley shrugs. “No candles, no fire.”

Aziraphale’s expression shifts, turns into a pout.

Crowley snaps his fingers again, holds out an identical fake candle. “This one smells like cinnamon.” He holds it out.

Aziraphale sniffs delicately. His lips twitch. “Fine,” he says. He takes the candle with him to his desk and proceeds to ignore Crowley who wanders around the shop, depositing fake candles here and there until the bookshop smells like one giant scented pine cone.

-

(1) No batteries required.


	5. Wet (f/f, human!au, meet cute)

Aziraphale has been coming to St. James’s Park for years at noon to feed the ducks and do a bit of light reading. She’d picked up the habit in uni and felt it was good to leave the dusty sanctuary of the library on occasion. She’s head librarian there now, and continues this old ritual whenever she can find the time.

Today, the sky is a brilliant blue and the air is crisp with the first day of Autumn and Aziraphale tosses some frozen peas to the ducks nearest her bench between reading passages from _Mrs. Dalloway_.

There’s a sudden loud splash and some of the ducks quack indignantly as they fly a little further down the path. Aziraphale looks up from her book in surprise to see a figure with a wet mop of red hair struggling to pull themselves from the water.

“Oh!” She hurries over, tucking her book safely back into her bag. “Are you all right?” She edges closer to the water and offers a helping hand.

The woman tosses the wet hair out of her face and laughs. “Got what I came for anyway.” She holds up a plastic bag triumphantly. “Didn’t mean to fall in, though.” She notices Aziraphale’s outstretched hand and takes it to steady herself on the slick grass at the lake’s edge. “Thanks, ah, I mean, hello.” She stares at Aziraphale.

“Um, hello,” Aziraphale says, her hand still caught in the other woman’s grip. “You went into the water to retrieve a bag?”

“Well, yeah.” She looks down at the bag, sees their joined hands and immediately pulls her own away. She clears her throat. “Couldn’t let it suffocate a duckling or anything, you know.”

Aziraphale’s heart melts. She notices when the woman starts to shiver, looking miserable in her soaked blouse and skirt. “Oh, dear,” she tuts, “you’ll catch a cold. Here.” She unbuttons her jumper and drapes it over the woman’s shoulders. “I’m Aziraphale.”

“Crowley,” she replies. “Thank you.” She grins and Aziraphale’s cheeks must now be as flushed as hers, though not from the chill in the air.

She flounders for a moment, wonders what else to say.

“Oh,” Crowley says suddenly when she discovers the bag of peas in Aziraphale’s pocket.

“Ah, yes, I come here to feed the ducks, you see,” Aziraphale babbles, reaching out to take the bag, “and I read a few months ago that you really shouldn’t feed them bread and I felt just awful because I’d been doing that for years, but the article mentioned frozen peas and they seem to like that just as much, so I…”

“You can also try oats, they like those as well.” Crowley’s shoes squelch wetly as they walk to the path. “I could… bring some and return your jumper? Tomorrow?”

“I’m almost always here around lunch time,” Aziraphale says, aiming for nonchalant and completely missing the mark.

Crowley smiles at her. “Good, that’s… good.” She pulls the jumper tighter around herself as a cool breeze sweeps past them. “I should go.”

“It was really lovely to meet you.” Aziraphale clearly does not have a nonchalant bone in her entire body.

Crowley doesn’t seem put off, however. If anything her smile grows and she gives a little wave as she walks away.

Aziraphale sinks back onto the park bench with a pleased wiggle. “Well,” she says to the nearest duck, but finds she’s smiling too hard to finish her sentence.


	6. Roadtrip (m/m, man bun, bebop)

Crowley could make the drive to the South Downs in an hour, easy, if he wanted to. He really didn’t want to. Not on a day like today, with its warm sunshine and skies as blue as the eyes that looked at him from the passenger seat.

He took it slow.

“Oh, this is nice,” Aziraphale said once he realized he didn’t have to cling to the door (or the dashboard, or the edge of the seat) as he typically did.

Crowley shrugged and rolled down the windows with a snap of his fingers. He let the wind muss his hair for a few minutes (he’d let it grow out after the world didn’t end) before he miracled the flyaway strands back into a bun.

Music that had started out as Mozart’s Symphony No. 41 had settled into the Best of Queen and he let it blare from the speakers, though it wasn’t loud enough to mask the sound of Aziraphale humming along to “Don’t Stop Me Now” next to him.

Crowley glanced at him, eyebrows raised.

Aziraphale stopped humming. “Don’t look so surprised. Do you think in all these years I never actually listened to your bebop?” His lips twitch. “Watch the road.”

Crowley did, mostly. He drove them further and further from the city, felt the air change to something clear and fresh and as light as the feeling in his heart when Aziraphale’s fingers began to tap a beat against his knee.


	7. Second Kiss (m/m, flangst, *mwah*)

It’s best they never talk about it, Crowley reminds himself. It’s really for the best.

He has to remind himself often because he thinks about their first kiss constantly.

He thinks about his mouth pressed desperately, even angrily, to Aziraphale’s plush lips. The salty brine left behind by the oysters that he’d licked from Aziraphale’s mouth before wrenching himself away. Aziraphale’s eyes wide and confused, his mouth opening and closing without releasing any sound.

Crowley had left him there.

He thinks of the years that passed before they saw each other again, and how when they finally did neither of them mentioned Rome.

When Aziraphale leans in to kiss him at the Ritz it’s soft but without hesitation.

Oh, he thinks, this is what their first kiss should have been. But he’d been hasty and angry and _wanting_. He’d learned the hard way about the dangers of moving too fast, thought he’d ruined his chance completely.

But here they finally are.

Aziraphale tastes like the pear and apple souffle half-eaten on the table. Crowley smiles against his lips.

Couldn’t it be argued that a second kiss is by far more important than a first kiss? If it should lead to a third kiss- and oh, what of their hundredth?

Aziraphale pulls away but doesn’t go far, his hand cradles Crowley’s cheek and his thumb sweeps across the delicate skin just below his dark glasses. Crowley keeps his eyes closed for a moment more, fully intends to savor every kiss Aziraphale grants him from now until eternity.


	8. Childhood (gen, warlock, more angst than fluff)

Warlock loves to ask questions, as many children do.

Brother Francis observes this and can’t help but wonder about Crowley’s own childhood, such as angels have. They were new once, of course, and far from all-knowing. It wouldn’t do to dwell on the Almighty’s decisions, but Brother Francis wonders, just for a moment, at Her reasons for casting out Crowley. Crowley with his aching kindness and his love for humanity and his endless curiosity

Nanny looks after young Warlock. She answers each “how?” and “why?” thoroughly and with as much patience as she can muster.

Brother Francis can sense love, all angels can, and he feels its glow in each answered question Nanny gifts Warlock. He wonders if her answers are an act of defiance for the ones she was denied. It’s a dangerous line of thought, one that fills his mind with half-formed questions he doesn’t have the courage to ask.

"How did the water get up so high?” Warlock's voice drifts across the garden as raindrops begin to fall.

Nanny’s lips curve into an indulgent smile as lifts she her umbrella over his head and explains the water cycle as they walk back to the house. Brother Francis watches them go, feeling warm despite the chill from the rain.


	9. Paint (m/m, nail polish, it's about the hands)

It’s the smell that catches Aziraphale’s attention. It pulls his nose from his book and turns his head toward the couch.

Crowley is painting his nails.

He watches for a moment as Crowley glides the brush over one thumbnail and moves on to his index finger, and Aziraphale moves away from his desk for a closer look.

“Angel,” Crowley greets when Aziraphale settles on the cushion beside him. He coats another nail with the same deep red paint.

He watches, transfixed as Crowley covers one last nail, and immediately reaches for his hands.

“Careful,” Crowley warns, “don’t want any smudges.”

Aziraphale smiles and bends closer to blow gently on each nail, allows his air to miracle the paint dry, and drops a kiss there against the polish before moving on to the next one.

He notes that Crowley has stopped breathing, looks up at his flushed face.

“Could you…” Aziraphale trails off, brushes his lips against Crowley’s knuckles, “My dear, would you paint mine?”

Crowley looks surprised but he lifts his free hand with a snap and holds a new bottle, gives it a little shake. It’s a pale pink, almost translucent.

Aziraphale rests his hand in Crowley’s, lets him paint each nail once and then twice. Each stroke is practiced and efficient and doesn’t leave behind so much as a speck on his skin.

After, Crowley blows them dry with one gentle breath and twines their fingers together to admire the colors side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgot to add this last week bc i'd fallen so far behind. will likely keep up into november since it will be good warm-up for nanowrimo everyday! super determined to finish all 31 prompts... eventually.
> 
> also bc i spent a truly stupid amount of time looking at nail polish online instead of actually writing this i just have to say that crowley's nails are painted with essie's _berry naughty_ and aziraphale's are essie's _mademoiselle_.


	10. Hands (m/m, pining, through the ages)

Seven times. They had brushed hands seven times in six thousand years. Crowley knew because he’d been keeping count.

**i.** In Rome, Aziraphale handed Crowley his first oyster. Didn’t offer it on a plate, didn’t wait for Crowley to reach for one himself, oh no. He held it on the tips of his fingers and said, “Do try one, I promise you won’t regret it.” And Crowley couldn’t avoid the way his fingers fumbled the oyster in his haste to take it, in an attempt not to linger where their skin touched. _He’s warm_, Crowley thought. It was a soft, inviting warmth that didn’t explain why Crowley felt scorched all the way to his core.

**ii.** Paris, 1793. They had crepes. Or, Aziraphale did. Crowley drank in the sight of him enjoying lunch and was more than content. Or, he was until Aziraphale reached out to swap his empty plate for Crowley’s untouched one. The movement revealed his wrist behind those ruffled sleeves and before Crowley had even taken another breath he had Aziraphale’s hand caught in his own. _Warm_, his mind supplied again. It was nothing like the white hot anger that burned inside him. “Angel,” he said through gritted teeth. Aziraphale pulled his hand back, rubbed at his scraped wrist. “I didn’t want to use another miracle,” he said. “Barely hurts. Should be fine in a day or two, and-” Crowley’s cold fingers snapped.

**iii.** He regretted adhering to the fashion of the time when he passed Aziraphale that note in St. James’s Park. He felt nothing but a brief touch of pressure through his glove. _Twice wasn’t enough_, he thought desperately after Aziraphale walked away.

**iv.** It was just one more bomb in the Blitz. Just one more destroyed building. And it was one more touch of Aziraphale’s hand, more than he ever dreamed he would receive as he slept away the decades. He relived the moment over and over again in the following years, how Aziraphale had reached out to brush a finger against Crowley’s and how the fire that smoldered around them was nothing compared to the staggering warmth that burst from that gentle touch. It was far better than he’d remembered it. For the first time in centuries he felt light on his feet, charred though they were. For the first time in centuries he forgot that he was cold.

**v.** In 1967, Crowley was desperate. The planned church heist was sloppy enough to catch Aziraphale’s attention and Crowley was stunned with relief to see him appear in the Bentley. He reached for the thermos with both hands because he’d become greedy, would take any chance for a spark of that intoxicating warmth. The tips of his fingers brushed against the tips of Aziraphale’s and it offered him a millisecond’s respite from an eternal cold. It was brief, so achingly brief, and his skin immediately settled back into its normal chill against the metal canister.

**vi.** It was time to leave Crowley’s flat, time to journey to the park together, time to tempt their Head Offices into action. Their plan was absolutely insane and Crowley held out his hand even though they didn’t need to touch in order to change. If it went wrong he wanted more than a brief and distant memory to cling to in his last moments, wanted to hold Aziraphale’s hand in his own like it was meant to be there. He held out his hand. Aziraphale knew they didn’t need to touch. Crowley knew that he knew. He held out his hand anyway, a silent plea that Aziraphale might grant him this one thing before the end. Aziraphale took it and the warmth spread out to cover Crowley like a blanket. _Oh_, he thought with a sudden and giddy realization. He could name it now, that heat that filled him up until he thought he’d burst. He could name it now, but he didn’t dare. They went to the park and he tried so hard to remember how to be cold.

**vii.** On a bench in St. James’s Park, Crowley held out a hand that wasn’t his own. He couldn’t bear to keep the stolen heat any longer. _He must be freezing_, Crowley thought miserably. He held out his hand. Aziraphale knew they didn’t need to touch. Eternity stretched out before them and Crowley asked for what he needed the only way he knew how. He held out Aziraphale’s hand and Aziraphale took it with Crowley’s, and Crowley wondered if Aziraphale could feel the warmth seeping back into his skin. He hated the feel of his cold hand against Aziraphale’s warm palm in the moment before they changed and those icy fingers became his own again. He greedily absorbed the warmth that lingered when their hands parted. Aziraphale knew they didn’t need to touch. Crowley thanked him the only way he knew how, “Can I tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

+

**viii.** Crowley is hyper aware of Aziraphale’s hand as it edges closer to his on the table at the Ritz. He keeps his own completely still and tries his best not to combust because this would be the third touch in one single day. He’d survived Aziraphale’s trial, but he’s sure Aziraphale deliberately reaching out to touch him will discorporate him on the spot. He doesn’t want to be cold anymore. He leaves his hand where it is. Aziraphale pats his hand lightly, just once, and Crowley can’t hear him over the ringing in his ears but when he doesn’t flinch or pull away Aziraphale hand settles on top of his. _Warm, warm, warm_, Crowley’s thoughts chant, but that’s not the word on the tip of his tongue. “Love you,” he whispers and Aziraphale’s smile is shaky but it’s there. “Dearest,” he answers, and his thumb traces slow circles around Crowley’s knuckles.

One time. He’s told Aziraphale he loves him one time in six thousand years. Crowley starts to keep count.


End file.
